for all the light that was born by Piet Nieuwland

for all the light that was born in your eyes this page opens on it falls the anticyclonic day, and a night sky of silky blues on it falls the vision of a platinum moon, its blazing stare swallowing paths of moving shadows in the ocean upon which it swims, waves of a tropical artery flower splashes of marlin in the passage of these islands through their naming, the language of fire sings from the ridges, the pa crossing our voices, a silicon bird surfs the magnetic fields of cool, still air, tasting seeds of wind from the silence of stars, an armada of glass palaces fuse, into a cathedral of whispering eyes and the space we occupy fills, with a rosary of vines

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Watch How The Slip Tips by Piet Nieuwland

watch how the slip tips itself over and flies headlong into a dive that wings into an arrow riding on the force of the throw and the magnetism that large objects emit, following the curve of vectors and wind resistance, the shaft vibrating through hillsides of toetoe torched with lightning, the satin plumes splinting the blue horizon with fire stippled bursts and shards, trapezoidal crystals and zags. in my mind is a wave, a surging crest of intelligence breaking upon an open sandy beach on the western coast, it rolls up into the shallows and foams into a long line of surf, tearing open the pent up energy of a large ocean crossing, pulling a net through the deepest passage of currents and tidal floors, enveloping the wisdom of fish and seabirds that plunge through masquerades of reflections, the wave it bursts and throws out incandescent showers of sparks and glowing particles in an effervescent mirage under a dome of mirrors repeating themselves thru infinity by factors of prime numbers and combinations of polygons and floating orbs that drift slowly like bubbles, and coalesce

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what this spring by Piet Nieuwland

a stranger in familiar country with the birth of sight her name was seeing in turquoize grey glances lasting hours and that seeing is ploughing, the eyes unfurling, unfolding, a peeling back nga kahu over kowhaitotarapuriri hillslopes, long ridgelines silent but for the green of air and what spring will do to this place this spring will do what, life will do with itself what living will do with us in the forest in the forest in the forest in in the forest the forest in the forest as mantra in the mandala of crowns in the shade and possibilities of leaves phyllodes and pointing of needles in the question ocean is for forest, forest is for ocean and the answer that skies are, for both of them the beach is a bay surrounded by islands, the islands are bays surrounded by beaches, the beaches are on islands carried by cliffs, the cliffs hang from ridges sweating with forest, the forest is a jungle of vines, the vines are seeds searching for light, the light is heavy with moisture, the water is a cloud, the cloud is a purple eye singing to drumbeats and cicada, spiders bouncing and a silver fish spinning a weave in the throat of a tern a moon of magnolias flower from your eyes your heart of baskets laden with nectars of mango papaya and pawpaw the morning is a cardinal honeyeater undressing the petals of a coral tree your crimson lips blushing silver flower of dusk black rose of sunset

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Alive, una tarde by Piet Nieuwland

Alive, una tarde, one afternoon Amongst the bread, the wine, and my soul in lemon yellow hours Looking at her immediately In a deep red dazzle Shankara, giver of joy Wandering in the ocean of deathless life Echoing funereal rites In fecundate stanzas, octaves of romancing Cascades with drumsticks, rivers of guitars and gongs Tropical torrents of devas igniting Dining together, they spent their life for a moment In a diamond sutra threading A night woven of bodies and naked hearts On the axilla of a fragile oar

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